


déshabillé

by Jagged



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:28:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27670693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jagged/pseuds/Jagged
Summary: Emet-Selch helps the Warrior of Light undress.
Relationships: Elidibus/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	déshabillé

**Author's Note:**

> set in some nebulous time period in the past. have been obsessed about elidibus & his "i have even become [[heroes]]" line since 5.3 hit and this is what happened

He doesn’t need to be told to know of the Warrior of Light’s return, so clear a beacon he appears to Emet-Selch’s sight. He waits, nevertheless, long enough that it might not seem strange, and finds him in the chambers he had arranged for that very purpose. In full armor still, as though fresh from the battlefield, and something stirs that makes him cross the threshold and close the door behind him.

“Let me,” Emet-Selch says as the evening spills red over the curtains. Elidibus gives no answer, but he stills in the center of the room, half-turns, and in the pause Emet-Selch can read invitation plain. 

These days they only see each other in interstices. What chaos he has sown in his idleness has grown ripe; to Elidibus, then, falls the harvest. Peace was ever the Emissary’s purpose, and if, on rare occasion, it should come at the end of a sword — well! the world is ugly enough of late, and Elidibus takes to blood and steel so beautifully. 

And look: soot still lingers on the helmet, stains Emet-Selch’s hands when he places his palms along its sides and eases it off. Black smudges the lip of the gorget as he puts his fingers to it, searching for the buckle and the hinge. Elidibus’ hair feathers over the back of his knuckles, bare for once, and matted though the strands are with dust and sweat still Emet-Selch indulges himself by loosing it from its tie and watching it spill in waves over the backplate of the armor. 

It ripples as Elidibus tips his head back. Emet-Selch’s hands drown in dull silver. “You are seldom so familiar,” he says. His tone is level, delivering a simple observation, but the unspoken _What do you want?_ hangs in the space between them as clear as light or the subtle undercurrents of aether Emet-Selch never truly occludes from his sight.

In lieu of answers he gathers the whole of Elidibus’ hair and pushes it over a shoulder so he can reach the clasp of the vambrace, the buckle of the spaulder. Beastly blood flakes in ugly chunks off the metal. 

What does he want? Zodiark knows the list is long. The words that bubble at the back of his mouth are bitter and full of bile. But now, with just the two of them, in the burning light — now is not the moment. With the ease of long practice he bites down on his rancor, and to cover the long stretch of silence scrapes a speck of dulled red from under his nail. Frowns, looking down at his hands, at the way the stains linger. “Reports came of your disappearance, you know. Some thought you dead, or worse.” 

“I’m sorry to have been cause for concern.”

“Oh, spare me the sarcasm. I know as well as you the way this game plays out.” 

A curl of the lip, glimpsed as he shakes off his irritation and steps aside to put away the pieces of armor he has worked loose. This body Elidibus inhabits is a pale imitation of who he once was, but from the corner of the eye, from the right angles, the resemblance is arresting. Once upon a time he looked much the same: his face guileless and open, his gaze a banked fire. 

Emet-Selch’s bad mood gutters out as suddenly as it sparked. He shakes his head and laughs, having drawn close again; his fingers trail along the inlaid patterns that curl into the lines of the armor. From the shoulder where he unfastens the cloak and lets it fall at their feet, to the breast then down the side to where sits the belt, the sword and its sheath. Elidibus, otherwise still, lifts his arm out of the way. 

“Salvation comes so much sweeter when wrested from the jaws of disaster. And what a good story it’ll make for later, mmh?”

As he speaks he bends to unclasp the buckle of the belt, to work it free of its loops. The leather is scratched and dull, worn in a way that belies the richness of the armor. Here he pauses with his hand where Elidibus’ hip curves, right above the ring of his scabbard. Glances up, and raises his brow.

“This old thing still? What happened to the one I had made for you along with the rest?”

“I like the fit of this one better.”

Emet-Selch tuts and shakes his head, sighs dramatically. It’s a good touch, if he’s to say the truth: the modesty of an adventurer’s trappings underlining the splendor of the hero’s garb, a subtle reminder of roots. But _he_ likes it best when he can see the shadow of his own hand entire on Elidibus. A matter to fix later, perhaps. 

The sword beats along Elidibus’ greaves as he pulls it free. He rubs his thumb over the engraved insignia along the pommel, grimacing as it darkens with soot, then turns and sets it down as well. Shadows pass outside beyond the curtains and he waits a moment, wonders if anything has occurred that might cause an interruption. But the noise fades, and soon light filters in again unhindered to thread Elidibus’ hair with gold.

“You should stay a while. Gather your strength, and let them see you.” 

“Would you stay as well?”

It’s hard to tell whether there’s a second question under there; if Emet-Selch is flattering himself when he thinks Elidibus might mean to say also: _Give me a better reason_ , or even: _Don’t go_. It’s a game he likes to play, charting the hypothetical course of events as unlikely as those. Over millenia he’s learned: Elidibus has always been a good liar. Emet-Selch won’t hold it against him that he keeps his cards and his feelings close to his chest, or at least not too much.

“It wouldn’t do for me to leave the realm’s hero to fend for himself, would it?”

Elidibus lowers his lashes. He looks like a coeurl after a hunt, or rather: the statue one would make of it, remembering the gleam of its fangs, the smooth ripple of fur over its muscles. Like the robes that Emet-Selch himself eschews, armor seems on Elidibus like a brace or a scaffold. He is not overfond of these bodies he borrows, and his distaste is more obvious than he knows. But plate has a way of making him solid — even now, with a third of the kit put aside and ichor not entirely dry weeping from the joints of the plastron, he wears it so naturally it may as well be his mask, his duty and function. 

“You need not make yourself my squire either,” he says. The leather of his gloves is well-worn too: it doesn’t creak when he flexes his hand, turns his wrist. It must be sore from the fighting, Emet-Selch thinks, or perhaps it is only a lingering trace of who the body used to be. Elidibus hasn’t known restlessness in centuries. “Too much humility from you might raise question.”

“You wound me.”

“Am I wrong?”

Breath whistling between his teeth, Emet-Selch puts his hands again to the metal. Pries the armor apart along the edges, undoing joint, catch, buckle. Underneath, stained: the acton. Unthinkingly he presses his palm flat across Elidibus’ chest, to smoothen the creases in the thick linen. From Elidibus comes a sharp, surprised sound, caught on the inhale: as though he has just been reminded of his body’s capacity for pain, as if he were surprised by it. It’s an odd fondness that bursts in Emet-Selch’s heart, a prickly, slinking thing he does not care to examine directly. Elidibus’ throat moves against the back of his fingers as he unbuttons the collar, his skin warm, a little damp. The cloth parts, reveals skin, a mottled bloom of bruises from high up the shoulder down to his flank. 

Fragile, these bodies are so fragile. Emet-Selch can feel himself wince in sympathy, remembering the way it felt on times when the injuries were his own.

“Do you think my role so precarious? Is worry so outlandish a thing coming from me?” he asks, and his voice draws low without his meaning to. “I’ve played the most of my part already, setting the stage so that you might come in. At this moment I am nothing; no great king, no character of note.” The stone floor is still sun-warm when he lowers himself to his knees, and he smiles, wild, his head tipped back to hold Elidibus’ eyes. “So what if they see me cleave to you. Wasn’t that the point? Are you not hero, savior, bringer of Light?”

He fair spits out the word, but the glee in him is sincere as anything. Not the searing stillness of light but motion, hope, salvation — the people should be so pleased to know how strong they make him in their need. If he unfocuses his eyes just so he can see the way power coils and drapes around the room, a humming coalescence with Elidibus at its center. There's a darkness much like it embedded in himself, threaded at the core of his being, a little secret the crawling, helpless masses won’t ever get to share. But the urge to turn and look, well, he can allow that, and give example too.

Elidibus makes a thoughtful sound. He removes his gloves, lets them fall to the ground amid the folds of his divested cloak.

“Were it that you more often felt this eager to fall in line,” he says, and from the sweep of his gaze encompasses all of it: the two of them alone in the room, Emet-Selch on his knees before him, the curtains drawn. If someone were to come in, what would they see? What would they say? What does it matter? With most of the plate gone, with his shirt open, Elidibus looks halfway to a ghost.

Emet-Selch is familiar with those. Has built private monuments, memorials innumerable. Always, always; it’s with a heavy hand that longing pulls at the reins of his heart and steers him on his course.

“I may lack fervor,” he says, and laughs, knowing they can both tell it for a lie, “but never doubt my conviction.”

He puts his hand to Elidibus’ knee, traces the high curve of the greaves as he searches for the release. The straps are stiff with mud and ash, the metal dark and smudged.

“There was a time,” he starts, and stops. Elidibus watches him still, remote, but he brings his fingers to card through Emet-Selch’s hair in slow, careful strokes. 

It hits him almost like a blow. Emet-Selch closes his eyes, bends the neck. Faith hums in his ears like the static from distant stars. In moments of weakness he has thought of asking directly: _Do you remember dying? What was it like? Tell me the whole of it. Tell me exactly what manner of god we made you._

He’s not afraid of the answer, exactly. But some things are to be looked at only sideways, spoken of only in secret.

The hand in his hair curls, drags until he has to look up once again. For a second he resists it just to feel the pull of it, the pressure. That fondness in him bubbles up once more, and what does it say that he almost likes Elidibus in this moment, even severe and strange and inexorable? He has changed, and yet in some ways he is not that different. An almost-stranger in not-quite familiar clothes, a window fogged but still see-through.

The greaves fall aside with a last tug upon the straps, and he moves on to the laces of the boots. Elidibus’ grip has loosened, but he can feel the dull scrape of nails against his scalp, deliberate, almost gentle. On impulse he catches him by the wrist. His pulse is slow, steady under the hem of his sleeve. Emet-Selch turns his head, presses his lips to that calloused palm. Outside the sun is slowly setting, and its red light sets the room dim and smoldering.

How many days ended? How many turns of the wheel, how many cities fallen, ruined? As many as it takes. But he is tired, so tired.

“There was a time,” Emet-Selch says, and puts his hand on Elidibus’ thigh, his ankle; “when it would have been the most natural thing in the world for me to care for you.”

“I remember,” Elidibus says, and even now he is a good liar.


End file.
